


Inheritance

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: G.I. Joe (Cartoon), G.I. Joe - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Inheritance, Military, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 07:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11143542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: During a rare moment of self-doubt, an unlikely person restores Beach Head's confidence.





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Brotherhood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070831) by [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/pseuds/DesertVixen). 



> This fic was inspired by the story "What We Inherit" by willwrite4fics.

With a heavy heart, Beach Head finished buttoning the jacket of his dress uniform, letting out a weary sigh as he gazed at himself in the mirror. These days, he never felt quite comfortable outside of his battle gear, and the absence of his ubiquitous balaclava left him feeling open and exposed. But nevertheless, today Beach Head had left his mask off. He had even shaved, showered with soap, and applied aftershave and deodorant for the occasion, finally putting to use the various designer toiletries Cover Girl had given to him last Christmas as a not-so-subtle hint. The ceremony he was about to attend wasn’t about survival or his personal comfort. It was about showing respect for the loss of a fellow soldier, a comrade in arms.

A tightness grew in Beach Head’s chest, an underlying sense of guilt pressing down on him that he couldn’t quite shake. Since he’d been appointed fourth in command of the Joes he’d been pestering Hawk to let him take on greater responsibilities. When Hawk had finally caved and put him in charges of training the Rawhides—the batch of recruits to successfully fight tooth and nail through the Sergeant’s Slaughterhouse—he had been very pleased with himself, thinking he would finally have a chance to show how the recruits  _ should _ be trained. And he would have a part in the final say of if they were allowed to officially become Joes.

Never he had he considered how guilty he would feel, how much he would doubt himself, when one of those recruits died in the field. Now, he was left wondering if he was the right man for the job after all, if he was capable of making sound decisions and judgement calls concerning the skills of the potential Joes.

Forget skills. This time, he hadn’t even been able to correctly determine the Joe’s true character. Beach Head let his shoulders slump in a rare moment of defeat. Since the day he’d donned the uniform, he’d been champing at the bit for his own command. Maybe there was a good reason the opportunity had never been presented to him.

A knock on the door brought Beach Head to startle slightly, and he inwardly scolded himself for being caught off-guard.

“It’s open,” he called, anticipating Cover Girl, his girlfriend.

But instead, it was Duke who entered his quarters. Like Beach Head, he was wearing his formal uniform. While the clothes looked sharp and suited him well, the G.I. Joe field commander’s face was drawn, tired, and etched with grief. Beach Head had never seen him look as devastated as he did, not that he could blame him—the loss of his kid brother had hit him hard. 

“Duke,” Beach Head said, trying to to level his usually gruff voice to show his deference. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

Duke nodded. “I know. But I had something I thought you might appreciate wearing to the memorial.” He extended a hand, offering Beach Head a narrow rectangular box of black leather. “This is for you,” he said quietly. “Vince told me once if anything happened to him, he wanted you to have it.”

Puzzled, Beach Head accepted the box and lifted the hinged lid, finding a folded piece of paper. Opening it, he revealed a brief message:  _ To Mean Green, the man who taught me to use my pride to find strength instead of hiding weakness. Yours, Vincent Falcone.  _ However, even the words of the departed Joe did nothing to resolve Beach Head’s confusion. He and Falcon had never been on good terms; he’d always been extra hard on him in training, and Falcon had always given him extra sass in response, though Beach Head had to admit Falcon had always surpassed whatever challenges he threw his way.

The actual item didn’t bring any clarity to the matter, either. The object in the box beneath the note was an elaborate men’s luxury watch. If Beach Head’s experience in assessing smuggled goods taught him anything, it was an authentic Rolex, with what appeared to be a high-karat wristband and tiny jewels lining the bezel.  

The piece of jewelry was unlike anything Beach Head had ever owned. Growing up poor in Auburn, Alabama and having to work hard for everything he owned taught him to be cautious with his money, and he was loathe to ever use his paychecks for frivolities. Hell, the watch on his wrist at the moment was a standard Army issue he’d never bothered to upgrade from.

There was no way he could accept the watch, not as expensive as it was, and certainly not in this scenario. He took a deep breath, trying to determine how to word a refusal with the sensitivity and respect the situation warranted.

“Vince and I inherited these from his great uncle when he passed away several years ago,” Duke explained. “We both valued them, but only wore them for special occasions.” He tried to offer a smile, but he couldn’t sustain the expression. “The last time I wore mine was for Vince and the other Rawhides’ induction ceremony into the Joes. He wore his that day, too.”

“This isn’t right,” Beach Head told him, trying to be sensitive but knowing all too well he was falling short of his aim. “I can’t take this, not when it’s a family heirloom.”

“Wayne, please.” Duke’s voice wasn’t quite begging, but there was a desperate note to it. “It’s what Vince wanted.”

Struck by the use of his real name and with guilt already weighing down on him, Beach Head relented, realizing he was incapable of wording a tactful decline. “All right,” he managed. “I’ll do it for your brother, Duke.” As he spoke, he removed his current watch and replaced it with the Rolex.

Some of the tension seemed to drain from Duke’s shoulders, and while he still looked exhausted, Beach Head thought he detected a hint of relief in his gaze. “Thank you,” he said, and with that, he took his leave. 

Glancing down at the new watch on his wrist, Beach Head once again felt guilt surge through him. He had never liked Falcon when he was alive, finding him too flippant and smart-mouthed to be a Joe, no matter how good his PT times and language skills. Now, Beach Head couldn’t help but wonder if his antipathy toward the Joe had stopped him from putting all the effort he could have into his training, that maybe—his stomach twisted at the thought—he’d subconsciously wanted Falcon to fail in the field.   

Well, if he had, he’d gotten his wish. And now he couldn’t have felt any lower than if he’d stolen the watch from the other man’s wrist while looting his corpse.

But at the moment, it wasn’t his feelings that were important. America had lost one of its soldiers. The Joes had lost one of their operatives. And Falcon’s family had lost a son, a brother. He needed to respect and remember that.

Squaring his shoulders, Beach Head set about making his final preparations for the memorial.   

* * *

All able-bodied Joes on base assembled for Falcon’s memorial. While Beach Head was expected to sit with the other commanders, Duke was allowed to sit with his family, and Scarlett was right there alongside him. For the first time, Beach Head saw Falcon’s father and Duke and Falcone’s mother. Max Falcone was a well-built, dark-haired man who had retired from the Army himself a few years prior, and today he wore his dress uniform, like most of the others in attendance. Constance Hauser-Falcone was a true Southern belle, with golden hair and the same blue eyes as both of her sons.

Several times during the service, Beach Head’s gaze landed on the two of them, shame coursing through him with every instance. He was unable to shake the notion that it was his instruction that ultimately failed Falcon, and the sight of Max Falcone’s shoulders shaking with sobs and Constance’s stoic grief that seemed beyond tears did nothing to assuage his fears. 

The service did not involve a casket or burial, as Falcon’s body had never been recovered. Instead, several members of the Joe team gave eulogies. One of the speakers was Sergeant Slaughter, who had personally recruited Falcon into the Joes and had him serve with the Renegades briefly during his initial training. Several of Falcon’s fellow former Rawhides spoke with fondness for their fallen friend and comrade, and Duke, of course, gave a tribute. The last speaker was Cover Girl, supplying what details she was authorized to reveal about Falcon’s final heroics.  

During a mission gone awry, Falcon and Gung-Ho had been separated from the two other members of the task force, Cover Girl and Outback. All of them had been seriously wounded, but Falcon had managed to drag the grievously injured Gung-Ho with him as he found transport, located Outback, found Cover Girl, and treated their various maladies to the best of his abilities. Finally, just as it looked they would finally be able to escape, the enemy converged and cornered them, and Falcon had sacrificed himself to give the others a chance to get away. Since then, Cover Girl was the only one granted permission to leave the medical bay, but both Gung-Ho and Outback were on the mend and would make a full recovery.

Though it was not the first Beach Head heard the story of Falcon’s final moments, he could not help but marvel all the same. He had always pegged Falcon as self-absorbed and overly egotistical, too conceited to ever so much as even make an effort at giving a damn about someone else. And yet he had died saving three of his fellow soldiers. How could Beach Head have been so wrong about him? 

At the reception following the service, Beach Head searched for Cover Girl, concerned she might be getting overly drained due to both her healing injuries and the emotional content of her speech and in need of some support. But just as he was looking for her, he was approached by Duke and Falcon’s mother. 

“Sergeant Sneeden, isn’t it?” Constance asked him, offering him a small, strained smile. “Vince often spoke of you. You must have made quite the impression—his opinion of you was very high.”

Beach Head only blinked for several moments, caught by surprise. “ _ Falcon? _ Thought highly of  _ me? _ ”  

“He was worried about entering G.I. Joe,” Constance explained. “He thought with Conrad—Duke—being his older brother, the instructors might be too easy on him and allow him entry based on connections rather than merit.” She let out a brief chuckle. “He was so relieved when you didn’t. He told me he was never so glad to have someone scream at him.”

Beach Head didn’t quite know what to say. While he was rarely tongue-tied, he was very aware that he was speaking to a society woman, which was an uncommon occurrence in itself, but she was also a grieving mother. Not to mention she had just revealed completely unexpected information about Falcon to him. 

He struggled for a response, and he was able to form one by complimenting Falcon—something he should have done more frequently when he was alive, he thought guiltily. “Your son impressed me, too. I thought he might wash out during training, but he proved to be too stubborn for it. It takes grit and guts to get through my program, but he earned his way. And then he went on to—” Beach Head hesitated to finish, not wanting to remind a mother of her child’s death. 

Constance looked at him understandingly. “Thank you for your kind words, Sergeant. Vince was stubborn, wasn’t he? I think one of the reasons he was able to get through your boot camp was because he was too proud to admit to failing, so his only option remaining was to make it through.”

“It was his stubbornness that helped him bring back three Joes, including a woman very important to me,” Beach Head said quietly. “For that, I can’t thank him enough. You raised a fine son, Mrs. Falcone. Two of them,” he added, spotting Duke, who, with Scarlett, was standing supportively alongside Mr. Falcone as he received condolences.

“You should remember to thank yourself, too, Sergeant,” Constance said gently. “After all, you helped to train Vince. When he talked to Max and I about you, he said it was your training that not only helped him prove himself to the team, but brought him to realize how he could use his pride as determination to push onward even when he thought he couldn’t make it.” She indicated the Rolex Beach Head was wearing. “The reason Max’s uncle left those watches to Conrad and Vince because he was estranged from the family due a petty spat until Max helped him reunite. He wanted to leave them to Max, since he had no children of his own, but Max wanted the watches to go to his sons. The instructions in his will said that the boys in turn should pass on the watches to the person who most helped them change for the better, as Max did for him. So,” she concluded, “In a way, I think you played a part in helping Vince rescue the other Joes, and Vince knew it.”

Her words rendered Beach Head speechless, and he was grateful when they were interrupted an instant later by Jinx and Dusty, two close friends of Falcon, expressing their sympathy for the family’s loss. Needing a moment to alone to process all Constance had told him, he politely excused himself and crossed to the other side of the room.

“Are you all right?” Cover Girl asked, walking up to stand beside him and laying a hand on his shoulder.

Swallowing, Beach Head looked down at the Rolex adorning his wrist, a watch he never would have selected for himself, but one that someone else had chosen to bequeath to him. The contents of Falcon’s note to him flashed through his mind, about Beach Head helping him find strength. 

Maybe he had been tougher on Falcon than was fair. But Falcon had not only appreciated it, but respected him for it, and believed that Beach Head had changed his life. At the end of the day, Falcon had been grateful to Beach Head for his training, to the extent that Constance Falcone thought it was Beach Head’s instruction that helped Falcon save the others.

“I’ll be fine,” Beach Head said, wrapping an arm around her and drawing her close in a rare display of public affection. He held her tightly, but was mindful of her healing injuries. “Thank you for speaking today.”

“It wouldn’t have been right to do anything else,” Cover Girl replied with conviction.

Beach Head nodded. The loss of a fellow soldier always grieved him, and yes, knowing that it was one of the soldiers he had personally trained lent him an extra sense of grief and responsibility. 

But Falcon had left him more than just the watch. He had left Beach Head absolution, a reassurance from beyond the grave that there were no hard feelings, that he was thankful for Beach Head shaping him into a better soldier. And that knowledge was what Beach Head had truly inherited. 

He would go on to train more Rawhides, and do so with the memory of the man he had misjudged, the man who had died saving his team, the man whose life Beach Head had changed but hadn’t known until it was too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration credit:
> 
> “What We Inherit” by willwrite4fics on FanFiction.Net inspired the idea of Falcon leaving a Rolex to Beach Head.
> 
> “And the Horse You Rode In On” by Firestar9mm on FanFiction.Net inspired the first names of Falcon’s parents (This fic is an excellent read, so you should definitely give it a look!). 
> 
> “Not Alone” and “Brotherhood” on AO3 reignited my interest in writing about Falcon (These are also brilliant fics, so be sure to check them out!).


End file.
